A Vow without Honor
by BeyondTheHorizonIsHope
Summary: "I made a promise to protect you. Honor or not, that is one I intend to keep." - A story of a Lion and a Wolf, two beings brought together by the very same reasons that should have kept them apart.
1. Prologue: The Twins

*cough* Hi! It's me again. Been kind of absent, I know. Also might have given up on previous stories. My apologies. However, I cannot keep away from Game of Thrones. Just bought Season 3 today and Season 4 is premiering soon. It's driving me insane! Anyway, I've had this idea for quite some time now, at least a year, but I finally managed to crank it out with all my excitement.

This prologue is a **flashforward.** All following chapters will go back to Season 1. And yes, my OC is an added Stark sibling, if you don't get that from the reading.

Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. Also, any similarities to other stories is completely coincidental.

Enjoy!

* * *

_The painful warrior famoused for fight,  
__After a thousand victories once foiled,  
__Is from the book of honour razed quite,  
__And all the rest forgot for which he toiled._

-William Shakespeare  
Sonnet 25

* * *

**Prologue  
**The Twins

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister had never been a patient man. He was not one to stand on formalities; he preferred the straightforward approach, although that often involved his sword and a good deal of blood. Considering the recent events at The Twins, his method may not have even been regarded as unconventional. Run of the mill maybe. A kingslayer could fit in well with this lot.

Standing in the middle of the dining hall with Brienne, Jaime watched a handful of Freys argue amongst themselves. Edwyn Frey had introduced himself when their caravan had first approached as the rightful Lord of the Crossing, but near an hour later, a Walton, an Emmon, and several other Walders had jumped in claiming their own importance. Their argument had reached extraordinary levels, echoing so loud through the empty chambers that dust had begun to fall from the rafters above. Jaime had stopped following it a long time ago, lost from the moment that he was told the Late Walder Frey was no longer in command.

"Yes, Ser Jaime, it is true." Lothar Frey had spoken solemnly. The beady eyed steward of The Twins, he seemed to be the only Frey who had a good grasp upon what was actually going on. "Not four days past, our Father departed. It was a gruesome sight, to be certain."

Jaime had pressed him on the matter, but got no other answers save for curses and bad luck.

He observed the hall while the Freys bickered. It was dark and dank, like so much of the Crossing, and if he squinted, Jaime could still make out the stains of pooled blood across the floor. So this was the place where The King in the North had lost the war. No, that was not right. He had lost it the moment he married that foreign girl and broken his oath to Walder Frey.

_You Starks always spoke of your honor, but you never did have much when it came to your women._

Robb's queen had been murdered along with him, stabbed in the belly with her babe, and his mother had her throat slit after doing the same to Walder's wife. All of his forces were slain and his was family gone, save for two: one safely tucked away at King's Landing and one here, but not for much longer if he had his way.

"This is getting us nowhere," Brienne mumbled. She stood straight and tall in her armor, as usual, and looked twice the knight that he did at the moment. His armor scarcely fit him anymore. His hair, while cleaned and brushed, still had a sort of dull look to it and his face had yet to be shaved, much to Cersei's disappointment. Strangely, he had found himself not giving a damn about that.

And then there was the matter of his missing hand.

His ghost fingers itched. They longed for the cold feel of steel and the weight of a well-balanced sword. If only he could oblige them. Instead, the scabbard hung on the wrong side. The hand that grasped the hilt was feeble and fumbled in its motions. To just hold the sword in his left hand might tip him over on the spot. That would certainly make things interesting.

"What are you doing?" Brienne hissed. She almost sounded concerned. Maybe he was growing on her after all. "Your hand…they'll know you've no skill with it."

"Speak a little louder and they might," Jaime retorted, though they could have been yelling and the Freys would have been none the wiser. "This lot couldn't tell a swordsman from a wench, though I suppose in your case that doesn't matter."

On any other day, the look on Brienne's face would have entertained him, but his mind was elsewhere at the moment. There was someone waiting for him in the dungeons, a lone wolf, a vow waiting to be fulfilled. He'd be damned if they had come through this much only to be held up by the bickering of old men.

"You like to call me Kingslayer, now let the title do its work."

He strode toward the dais, cool and confident as was his way. His left hand remained secured to his sword, though holding it across his body felt awkward as he moved. The stump hovered over the hilt as well. It must have made for an odd sight. He ignored the thought, determined to portray the Kingslayer once again, even if he had forgotten how.

Had they taken his hand or his mind?

Jaime stopped just behind…Walder was it? Frankly, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care to. They were all equally ugly and weasel-like.

"As interested as I am in your familial matters, would someone show me the kindness of promptly shutting up and showing me to the dungeons?" There was an edge in his voice, sharp and cold as ice. It brought a swift end to the argument, though the silence lasted longer than his patience cared for. "I'm more than happy to look for it myself, even if I have to tear this place down brick by brick."

One gulped. "Well, you see, Ser Jaime…your, uh…"

"Your Lord Father promised us the prisoners," Edwyn finished, giving the other Frey a hard look.

"I don't want all of them, just the Stark."

"She's a prisoner, same as the others. She was to be our father's new bride."

_So he could call himself King, no doubt._ Jaime felt his ghost fingers clench.

"Now Bolton wants her for his bastard."

Emmon snorted. "Too fine a deal for the wolf bitch."

Suddenly, the Frey found a sword to his neck. Jaime did not realize it was his until he felt the full weight of it on his outstretched arm. It had moved with the dexterity of his right, efficient and deadly, though if asked to repeat the motion, Jaime knew he would fail terribly. There was something about blinding rage that made the impossible happen.

"Speak of her like that again and Lady Joyeuse won't be the only Frey with a slit throat."

Edwyn paled. "You would dare draw against us in our home? Have you lost all sense?"

"No, just my hand and my patience. Now take me to the girl."

One of the Walders narrowed his eyes. "Might be we throw you in with her."

"I'm certain my father would be overjoyed to hear that. Tell me, how long do you think the Twins will last against the entire might of the Lannister army? A week? A month? Hard to tell really, but you will all die, that much I can promise." It was not a card he liked to play, using the power of his father, but he needed to get somewhere. Maybe if he were whole he might have tried something else, but he wasn't, and never would be again, not unless she was waiting for him with a new hand. "Take me to the girl, _now_."

* * *

Jaime hadn't thought any particular part of the Twins could be darker or danker than the last, but he supposed the dungeons would find some way. There were torches, but the continuous dripping from the walls and ceiling had all but snuffed them out, choking the air with smoke and leaving it difficult to breathe. Jaime had to squint to make sense of anything in the environment.

The cells were filled with Northmen. They all coughed and wheezed and looked far more terrible than he ever had in their captivity, and half the time he'd been dragged through the mud. They, however, had been dragged through blood and bodies. Their clothes were sticky with the red stuff, and what wounds they received had gone untreated and were beginning to fester.

_This is no place for her_. _Kind souls do not last long in this ruin. _

He had to wonder how much of her soul was even left.

Lothar Frey pointed to the far cell. It, too, was filled with many bodies. They all looked up when he approached, some hissing 'Kingslayer,' a great many others simply staring with a look that could skewer a boar. Jaime ignored them as he searched for her.

A body stood in his way. It was none other than Edmure Tully, looking as distraught as all the rest. What a wedding night he must have had.

"You'll not have her."

Jaime almost laughed. Even without his sword hand, he could take the young Lord of Riverrun without even breaking a sweat. He almost said as much until a small, but commanding voice interrupted his thoughts.

"It is alright, Uncle."

A slim figure near the back rose to its feet. In near unison, so did the Northmen. The dungeons filled with a sound of shuffling as men in other cells did the same. Even while imprisoned, wounded, and at the losing end of the war, they would all stand for their Queen. Even he had to admit, there was something admirable about the stubborn loyalty of her men.

She crossed the cell silently, taking the place Edmure vacated. Behind her, the Greatjon stood, her silent, looming guardian. Though she was tall herself, she was dwarfed in comparison.

Small, pale hands appeared and removed the hood of her cloak.

"My lady," Brienne breathed, her voice a shocked whisper. It was still loud enough to cover Jaime's sudden intake of breath.

There was blood on her face still, though it appeared to have been wiped, even possibly clawed at. A small cut on her cheek was the only visible wound, but it was not the physical marks that bothered him. It was her eyes. Even the dead looked more alive than her. All the light had gone out of them, leaving naught but a deep black. Her face was tense, frown set to never move.

Myra Stark looked as cold as Winter felt.

"This is the Queen in the North, traitor, and you should address her as such," the Greatjon growled. Brienne, thankfully, said nothing. He supposed she was too shocked to. That would be a first.

Jaime never looked to neither the Greatjon nor to Brienne. His eyes never left Myra's. They couldn't.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, voice as sharp as the sword he carried. "Have you come to mock the Queen in the North as well? To wed her and bed her and call yourself King?"

"You of all people ought to know that's not in my nature." He was beckoning the softer side of her to return, the side that had listened to him and understood despite all the circumstances surrounding them. It was the side of her that had forgiven a man who had been deemed unforgivable. It was the side he feared was as dead as her brother.

Her eyes narrowed, cool, calculating, too much like Cersei's. "No, it is not. You're only in the business of killing kings."

There had been a time when he would have shrugged off such insults, after all they had been spat at him for over fifteen years, but her words made him wince. She had not spoken to him like that, not in a long while.

"My brother was a king."

"Myra, I didn't-"

"Jaime Lannister sends his regards!" Myra spat, her voice elevated, unrecognizable. "That was what Bolton said as he plunged his sword through _my _brother, as they killed _my_ good-sister, and _my_ mother! Do not tell me you played no part, Kingslayer."

The room became deathly silent. The wounded would not cough and the living forgot to breathe.

He looked into her eyes then, truly, deeply, but even in her anger, there was no flame amidst the darkness of her irises.

Jaime sighed. "Then I won't."

Myra took a deep, ragged breath, her eyes scanning him over, not even pausing on the stump that had not been there last they saw each other.

"You have no honor, and you have no heart."

No, he did not.

He'd lost his honor all those years ago when he sliced the throat of Aerys Targaryen.

But his heart he had lost to the woman before him.

* * *

*nervously twitches* I hope you guys liked it! Feel free to comment below!


	2. The Approach

Holy crap, guys! The response has been **AMAZING!** Thank you so much for all the reviews, follows and faves! You guys are making my day over here!

So, as I stated in the prologue, the chapters are now reverting to the very beginning of Season 1. The first couple chapters are going to be a bit jumpy time wise but it'll even out soon enough. I'm also experimenting a bit with different POVs as you can see here. Also, I apologize for anyone wanting a quick romance. This one is going to be pretty slow. Lots of things to do!

FYI this first chapter is really just an intro to how all the characters are doing. Not much action/plot movement. Sorry if it's a bit boring.

I hope you all enjoy!

Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. Any similarities to other stories is completely coincidental.

* * *

**Chapter One  
**The Approach

**Ned**

When word of the boy's death came, Ned knew where to find his daughter.

There was a hill not far from their home, the highest to be found before reaching the Lonely Hills in the North. On the clearest of days, it was rumored that one could spot the sea from there, but rumors were nothing more than words, and words were wind.

Still, it was where he found Myra, astride her chestnut mare, gazing at the horizon where the Narrow Sea would not rise up for many more leagues. From a distance, and with her back to him, Ned could almost mistake her for Lyanna. She looked so much like his sister, and rode nearly as well, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Lyanna was headstrong, Myra was willing to compromise; where his sister was hot-tempered, his daughter kept her calm. She was patient, obedient, and cautious, not that she did not have her moments. She was of the North after all.

"I thought I might find you here," Ned spoke as he brought his stallion to a halt beside her.

"There never have been many places to hide."

Ned turned to her, but said nothing else. She would speak when the time was right.

Myra was his eldest, older than her twin, Robb, if only by moments, though there were times he thought years separated them. While Robb still struggled with the responsibility now resting upon his shoulders, Myra had taken to it rather well and with all the grace a person could muster. To be honest, Ned had expected no less from her. She had burdened herself with duties to her family and to Winterfell long before it was ever required of her.

If the situation were not so grave, he might have smiled. There was no denying that Myra was his.

"Did he suffer?" she asked after some time. Myra's voice was a whisper, hardly louder than the wind. Her gaze had left the horizon and settled on the back of her mare's neck as she picked at the mane.

"I could not say. Lord Bolton made no mention of it."

He might have lied, told her the boy's death was quick and painless, but it was not in his nature, even for the sake of his children. The truth was always better. Besides which, his daughter could pick out a lie from leagues away. Some called it a gift; he called it growing up with brothers.

"I hope he did not. Domeric deserved better than that."

Ned paused. "Did you care for him?"

Myra was silent for a long time before she turned to him, her gray eyes glistening with unshed tears, skin reddened by the cold, evening air. Black strands of her hair clung to her face, but she seemed not to care.

"He promised to show me the sea one day, and teach me the harp if I wished to learn. Anything to please his lady wife, who must be so disappointed in her choice of a husband." Myra shook her head, a tear escaping. "The way he thought of himself made me sad, but he was sweet and gentle. I do believe I will miss him."

Nodding grimly, Ned placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, the only comfort he could offer her on horseback. Myra rested her cheek against his fingers. He could feel her tears streak across his skin.

His daughter was a gentle soul, prone to empathize with even the hardest of characters. She wept for those she hardly knew and sought to comfort many deemed unworthy of such kindness. Truthfully, it made him worry. There were many lords who would have liked to take advantage of someone like her. And for all her strength, Ned could not be certain whether or not she would crumble in the house of a lord not near as kind.

"Am I to marry Ramsay now?" Myra spoke, breaking the thoughtful silence. She lifted her head to look at him, eyes filled with expectation and what he might have guessed was a flicker of fear. "I know he is only a bastard, but with Lord Bolton having no heirs, the king might legitimize-"

"You'll not marry Ramsay," Ned interrupted, not wanting to hear her finish the thought. She did not know the manner of the boy's death and, if the old gods smiled upon him, she never would. A being such as Ramsay Snow did not deserve the blessing of Myra as his wife, nor the blessing of any woman for that matter. "Lord Bolton will have to make do without you as a daughter."

Myra nodded, respectful, but there was no mistaking the relieved slump in her shoulders. She may not have known about the kinslaying, but the reputation of Ramsay was hard to miss.

"Who am I to marry then?"

Ned smiled at her, though there was no happiness in it. All he felt was a yearning for her to be a child again, free and uncommitted to the game all highborns played.

He lifted his hand from her shoulder, wiping away the tears on her cheeks with his thumb. "That is something to worry over another day. You are young and will be married before long, but let us leave it for now."

"I would like that very much."

He did not doubt her. Ned only wished the smile she gave him reflected more than just understanding.

"Come," he said, gripping the reins of his stallion. "Your mother'll be frozen with worry, and don't get me started on your twin."

Now he heard it, genuine happiness echoing in her light laughter. It was a good sign.

"Robb, worry? Father, I do believe you're confusing my dear brother for someone else."

Ned joined in on her laughter, the lighthearted feeling chasing away the sadness in his daughter's voice as they returned to Winterfell.

* * *

**Myra**

Had her room always looked so glum?

Myra stared at the walls, hands on her hips, debating whether or not she ought to light another candle. She had already brought so many into her room that Vayon Poole was likely convinced she intended to burn the castle down. And so many were already lit that even with all her windows open, the stench of the smoke would not thin nor would the cloud that seemed to have accumulated around her ceiling. And it would be a lie to say her eyes weren't stinging slightly.

But she did not want to be in the darkness, not this night. The castle was dark. The land was dark. Her thoughts were dark. Myra wanted something to be light, to remind her that the blackness would soon give way to the bright dawn and the warmth of something better than she could hope for. Yet for all the heat the candles and her hearth provided, there was a very real chill crawling up and down her spine.

She had not hoped for someone better than Domeric Bolton when it came to her betrothal. Her father loved her dearly and would never willingly let harm come to her, but at the end of it all they were just pieces in the never ending game. Power married power and moved down the board, whether or not happiness was content to follow. But in the Dreadfort's heir, Myra had found a shyness she had not expected and a willingness to do anything to make her comfortable, rather than just forcing her to adapt. That had sprouted the hope that everything would be fine, but then a raven bore a letter to their keep…

Dark wings, dark words, and her now darkened future.

No, she did not like the darkness at all.

"Gods, Myra, what sort of ritual are you performing in here?"

Myra turned to see Robb in the threshold of her room, his mouth agape. Jon stood just behind him, clearly debating as to whether or not he actually wanted to enter. They still wore their swords and a fine layer of sweat covered them both. Of course they had been practicing again. If they weren't eating or sleeping, they were fighting, because that was how the world should function according to them.

"The kind that teaches boys to knock before entering their sister's room." She walked over to them, scanning the hall outside. "Please tell me you didn't bring Theon as well."

"Of course not," Jon scoffed, pulling the door closed behind him. "This is a family matter."

Robb crossed his arms. "He wouldn't want to anyway. I believe his exact words were 'don't you have something better to do besides wallow in your sister's tears?'"

Myra rolled her eyes, sitting on her bed. "Doesn't he have something better to do than toss coins at the whorehouse?"

Jon snorted and Robb smiled, both moving to sit on either side of her.

They were an odd sort of trio, the twins and the half-brother.

Robb and Myra looked nearly nothing alike. Where she had all the coloring of the North, her brother clearly took after the Tully side of the family, with his red hair and bright, blue eyes. In fact, the only attestation to their relationship was their similar height and uncanny ability to know what the other was thinking. They often finished each other's sentences and had conversations involving only eye contact and the occasional head nod.

Jon, on the other hand, was the boy people often mistook for Myra's twin. Same look, same height, and the same gloomy disposition when left thinking for too long, Myra and Jon found themselves acting more and more like each other than she and Robb. When she was younger, much to her mother's dismay, Myra would often cut her hair, very poorly, and dress in Jon's clothes. Only their father could ever tell them apart.

It had not occurred to her for the longest time how much their similarity hurt Jon. Here she was, a near replica of him, treated far better and given all the courtesy of a trueborn child, while he was left as nothing more than a bastard. That was when she let her hair grow and stopped stealing his clothes.

"Are you really going to make us ask?" Jon spoke after a while, interrupting Myra's thoughts.

"I'm fine," she replied, a little too fast. Both brothers gave her unconvinced looks. Myra slumped and fell back on her bed. "Really, I am."

"I don't believe you," Robb said, looking down at her.

"And why is that?"

"Because I am your twin. I know exactly how you feel."

"Then why do you need to ask?"

Robb fell down next to her. "Courtesy, I s'pose."

Myra snorted. "Courtesy from you? That's a new one, to be certain."

Jon chucked and joined his siblings, now all lying on their backs, watching the ceiling and the smoke that drifted by. Myra said nothing else. She knew her brothers would in time. They weren't ones to stay silent for long periods. Instead, she enjoyed the comfort of their presence, the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their proximity. They would not have this much longer. The days were growing colder; their summer was over.

Myra found the chill returning.

"I can see how you would be sad," Jon started. His words were slow, like he could not quite tell which to use. "He was our age, and he is already dead, but…doesn't that mean you're free as well? You weren't exactly enthusiastic about marrying him."

"And who would be?" Robb chimed in. "He was a bit odd looking."

"And pale."

"Scrawny."

"Quiet."

"And he smelled funny."

Myra sighed. "Do the two of you honestly believe insulting the dead is supposed to comfort me?"

"Absolutely not," Robb replied, stone-faced. "But it is entertaining."

Robb got an elbow in the chest for that. He shrunk away in pain, but began to laugh anyway. The other two soon followed suit, the sound far too contagious to resist. They continued for some time, remembering other funny moments and finding themselves unable to stop. Myra never wanted it to end. She did not laugh enough anymore. And she was not sure if she would have someone who could make her feel this way again.

"The point is," Jon continued when they had calmed down. "You're staying in Winterfell with us now. Aren't you relieved in some way?"

Myra turned to Jon, seeing true concern reflected in his dark eyes. He knew the truth, she just supposed he did not want to believe it. Neither did she, really.

"It's nothing permanent," she murmured, looking back to the ceiling. The smoke cast strange shadows that suddenly made her uncomfortable in the light. "I'll soon be betrothed to someone else in some other far off place. At least the Dreadfort was still in the North. Maybe this time I won't be so lucky. Maybe this time my intended will not be so kind."

The room grew cold and suddenly Myra thought she felt the anger of all the North gathering to her left and right.

"Then your intended would not know this world for much longer," Robb spoke, as serious as she'd ever seen him.

Myra paused. "You would kill for me?"

The words tasted bitter in her mouth.

Jon nodded his assent. "You're our sister, and far better than most of these lords deserve. If they refuse to see it, we'll open their eyes for them."

There was a long silence after that. Myra did not know how to react. Was she to be comforted or mortified? It was hard to tell which.

Robb smiled to her left. "Maybe Father will marry you to Theon."

Myra blanched, abruptly sitting up. "That settles it then. Farewell, my brothers. I am off to join the Silent Sisters."

"You'd never make it. You enjoy the sound of your voice too much."

She smacked Robb again before standing up; she drifted over to some of the candles burning near the doorway, blowing them out slowly.

"In all seriousness though," Robb started behind her. "We'd start a war for you, Myra."

Another candle went out, smoke stinging her eyes.

"No one is worth a war."

* * *

**Jaime**

Seven hells, he was bored.

They had been on the road for nearly a fortnight, and every league closer they drew to the North, the more insufferably bleak the landscape became. The trees were beginning to thin, as were the animals and the general population, and every time they happened upon some random, shabby inn, the frowns they met were deeper than the last. No wonder the Starks were such a glum lot.

The Queen's carriage had gotten stuck in the mud for somewhere over the twentieth time, and roughly half the caravan was participating in freeing it. The King, in his restless way, had gone off on another hunt, dragging Ser Barristan and Ser Arys with him. When the carriage was finally freed, he would be nowhere to be found, forcing them to stay the night in that very spot until he turned up drunk off his ass and dragging something furry behind his horse.

This was starting to become a daily trend and was very quickly gnawing away at what little tolerance he possessed.

He had been watching the chaos from atop his horse, men slipping in the mud and others bashing their heads on the woodwork when the carriage moved too quickly, but his eyes soon sought out the only thing of interest.

Cersei was standing a good thirty paces away from the scene, eyes scanning over every detail, calculating, her lips curved in a faint look of disgust. It did not do her beauty justice to scowl like that. Her lips should form a smile, or be softly parted, or, preferably, be thrust upon his own, filled with all the desire of two lovers bereft of each other for too long.

It took all the strength he had to not kick his stallion forward and drag her off into the woods, where they could finally be alone. At least then things would stop being so dull.

"My dear brother, you look positively enthused."

Jaime glanced over at his brother, who had somehow pulled up without him noticing. Tyrion was wearing that smirk of his, the kind he only got when everyone else was miserable.

He turned his gaze back to the carriage. "I want to kill something."

"Is there ever a time when you don't want to kill something?"

"Probably after I've killed it."

Tyrion chuckled. "Well, you certainly could have joined our good-brother on his little expedition."

Jaime snorted, eyes glimpsing at the patch of trees where he had last seen their noble King. "And leave you with all the fun here? I hardly think so."

They fell silent, listening to the groaning of the carriage as it finally broke free from the mud. There were cheers and pats among the men as they congratulated each other, but it fell silent rather quickly. No doubt they all realized it would be the same thing tomorrow.

"I don't suppose anyone wants to go looking for the King," Tyrion observed.

"I don't plan on it. He'll be halfway to Riverrun by now." Jaime looked up. "It's barely midday. The Stark words will come true before we get to their bloody castle."

"Perhaps you're right," Tyrion agreed. "Well, I am off for the remainder of the day. Plenty of business to attend to."

"And by business you mean pleasure." Jaime smirked as Tyrion began to ride off. "How do you plan on finding a whorehouse in the middle of nowhere?"

"A man of my skill always knows where to look." Tyrion stopped, turning back briefly. "Oh, but do tell me if our good-brother returns before the sun sets this time. I wouldn't want to miss the twenty paces the caravan moves before we're stuck again."

Jaime rolled his eyes, riding forward into the camp.

He trotted past dozens of Lannister and Baratheon soldiers setting up tents and starting cooking fires. A few acknowledged him, but most kept to their business. He preferred it that way. Why bother wanting anyone to look at you when it was for only one reason?

Kingslayer.

He grimaced inwardly, but outside he remained the same. It was a good trick he taught himself, never to show what he felt. Your life could hang in the balance when it came to showing your emotions. He and Cersei knew that very well.

Jaime dismounted his horse by the carriage, where he had seen his sister's golden hair disappear into earlier, handing the reins to a nearby Lannister guard. He quickly checked that the area had been thoroughly abandoned before entering.

Cersei did not even react to his entrance. She knew he was coming; she always did. Her emerald eyes were instead watching the land outside the only open window, the sunlight casting an otherworldly glow upon her skin. This was how she ought to have looked all the time. Peaceful. Beautiful. Alone with him.

"I don't suppose you know where my husband's run off to."

Jaime sat across from her. "I'm not sure he even knows."

"No, of course not. How could he? He hates travelling sober." She sighed, pulling the curtain into place. Her eyes locked on to his, a strange combination of aggravation and loneliness reflected in them. "Why does he insist on doing this to us? What possible reason could he have for dragging the entire court into the middle of nowhere?"

"He doesn't need a reason."

"He hates us."

Jaime shrugged. "I think our good King hates anything that isn't easy to kill or easy to fuck. As it just so happens, we Lannisters are both."

The corner of her mouth curved upward. "Does that include our little brother?"

"Possibly."

Cersei shook her head. There was a glint in her eyes. Laughter, mischief, lust. But instead of capitalizing on it, she moved toward the opening, ducking to go outside. She always had been paranoid. He was having none of that today.

Jaime grabbed her wrist, tugging her back until she had fallen onto his lap, nearly straddling him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Stop it," Cersei hissed, struggling against his grip, though it was entirely useless. "They'll see."

"No one's going to see." He ran a hand through her golden locks, so much like his own. His other half. His better half. And though she still fought, her resolve was weakening. He could see it in her eyes. She loved it when he took control; she loved the danger, the thrill of it all.

Her lips tasted like honey, sweet, invigorating, demanding he take more, and Jaime did well to meet that. He felt her fingers comb through his hair and had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. Her touch did so much to him. It was hard to keep control.

His mouth moved down her jaw, to that little part of her neck that made her sigh, and further still. When he got to the top of her dress, he began to peel back the fabric, eager to touch the skin she hid, but that was when Cersei stopped cold.

She stood abruptly, fixing her hair and composing herself at a rate he found nearly impossible. Suddenly the desire was gone, replaced with that paranoia.

"They'll see."

And then she was gone.

Jaime sighed, lying back on his seat. Unlike his dear sister, he could not recover so quickly from something like that. How she did it, he'd never know.

What he did know was that the sooner they got to Winterfell, the better.

* * *

*peaks out from behind couch* So...what'd you think? Feel free to comment! I will try my best to get back to people. Feedback is much appreciated! Keeps the muse happy.

Also, I apologize for any grammar mishaps. I've got a cold and am only vaguely aware of my surroundings right now.

Until next time!


	3. The Arrival

Well...that certainly took longer than I thought it would. **I APOLOGIZE. **School was just tearing me to pieces. Also, I just found Jaime's bit extremely difficult to write (so if you find it a bit lacking, sorry, for some reason it was hard for me to hack out). I was originally going to have Cersei's POV, but then I moved that. It was almost all from Myra's POV. Hopefully future chapters will prove less troublesome.

Also, Assassin's Creed. Need I explain more?

Reviews have been fantastic! Thank you guys so much for all the love you've shown this story. I hope to return it all tenfold.

Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. Any similarities to other stories is completely coincidental.

* * *

**Chapter Two  
**The Arrival

**Myra**

"He should have never gone."

Myra looked to her young brother, Bran, as he played with his newfound direwolf pup in front of the hearth. His effort was only half there; his mind was somewhere else.

All the Stark children had gathered in the Great Hall, to include Jon, with their little pets in tow. Sansa sat at one of the tables, tying a bow around the neck of hers. Arya was running around, trying to get her pup to fetch a stick already, though the poor thing could hardly walk without tripping over itself. Robb sat with Rickon in the back, making certain the young Stark treated his pup well. Myra and Jon sat at a different table, their own direwolves wandering around the surface.

She turned back to Jon. "He's too young."

"Robb and I were near the same age when we saw our first execution," Jon countered, blocking his albino runt from jumping off the table.

"But it's different with Bran. He's not like the two of you."

And it was true. Bran was always a happy child, summer in its purest form, but in the span of a few hours, he had aged drastically, and it broke her heart. She wanted to take him and hide him from the world, as selfish as it sounded.

"If he wants to be a knight like in those tales of his, he'll have to learn. You know Father's words."

Myra sighed. "Winter is coming."

She had never liked their house words much. They always hinted at terrible things on the horizon. Nothing good came to the North without mention of them. It took the beauty and wonder out of it all and left a cold, empty feeling in its wake. It was no wonder the rest of Westeros thought them a cold people. There appeared to be no escaping it.

Grabbing her pup, Myra made her way over to the hearth, sitting just across from Bran. Her direwolf was a little bundle of gray fur with the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. The little creature would yip and attempt to dig into the layers of her dress. It made her smile; it was hard to believe such a tiny thing could turn into the great direwolves of legend.

"Have you got a name for yours?"

Myra looked up at Bran with a smile. "I think…Shimmer might do for her."

Bran arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with her choice. "Shimmer?"

"Yes, Shimmer," Myra repeated, lowering the pup to the floor. It began to sniff at the stone, occasionally glancing at the fire, wariness in its eyes. "See how she glows in the firelight, like little flecks of silver are caught in her hair? I find her name rather appropriate."

She watched Bran follow the pup's movements, noting the streaks of light that ran through the fur. It was like the old gods had given her living metal.

"I think it's silly."

"Oh? And what great name have you given yours?"

Bran looked at her sheepishly. "He doesn't have one. Every name I think of doesn't stick. Maybe he's better off that way. Probably won't even survive."

Myra frowned, inwardly cursing the man who came down from the Wall and made her brother have to witness his execution. He'd stolen all the warmth out of Bran.

"That is the way of the world," she admitted, bringing Shimmer back to her lap. "Some live, some die."

No one said anything for a while and the Great Hall was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and little growls. Rickon had fallen asleep, curled up with his pup. Robb had backed away and appeared to be whispering something to Theon, who had snuck in with a rather glum attitude. Sansa and Arya were now sitting together, not bickering with one another for the first time in ages.

"Why would he do it?" Bran asked suddenly. "Everyone knows if you leave the Night's Watch, you die, so why do it?"

Myra bit her lip, thinking, stalling. "For some people, death is kinder than living."

"Why is that?"

"I couldn't say, and I hope to never find out," she paused, offering Bran a soft smile. "I can't say seeing these things will ever be easier, but you'll come to understand them, and that is all anyone can ask of you."

Bran nodded solemnly and stood. She liked to hope that his walk looked a little less burdened, but there was no way to know how anyone truly felt. She could not be certain if that was a good or bad thing.

* * *

The day the King arrived in Winterfell was one Myra would never be able to forget, even if she wanted to. The castle had never felt so alive. Even when they had harvest feasts, there had never been such preparations made. She supposed they were simple like that in the North, but it was Robert Baratheon who would be gracing their halls this time, not sworn swords and bannermen well accustomed to the ways of the Starks. Anything that could be done was being done, even if it made little sense and did nothing more than make something look slightly prettier.

Shimmer stood calmly beside Myra, already as tall as her knee, as she fussed over her dress. They'd only had the direwolves for a fortnight but they had grown much in their company. Even Bran's had survived, much to his delight, although her brother still hadn't named the poor thing. 'Hey you' was the closest he had gotten to anything permanent.

The dress she wore was a deep blue, with intricate needlework around the bodice with gray thread, and made of a thick material to block out the strong winds of the North. As far as their standards went, her choice in clothing was too complicated, but Myra had heard of the elaborate pieces the women of the South liked to wear. She had never thought of herself as someone who focused too much on vanity, but still she found the urge to leave a good impression too strong to resist.

Arya would be disappointed. Sansa would applaud. There never was any middle ground. Sometimes Myra wondered how they could all possibly be related.

She had braided a few strands of her hair, but for the most part left the long, black locks flowing freely as they pleased. It was rare that Myra ever completely put her hair up. She was no fighter and did not hold the notion of becoming one unlike Arya. It was as much a part of her outfit as her dress and shoes, and did not need to be hidden from the world.

Domeric had liked her hair down as well. She hadn't expected his ghost to have as much influence on her as he did.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, looking down at her pup.

Blue eyes looked up at her. Shimmer tilted her head this way and that, as though actually considering her question, before she yipped in what Myra could only assume was a positive response.

"You would like it. I can't recall you not liking anything of mine," Myra replied, brushing down the sides of her dress. She paused suddenly, hitting her forehead with her hand. "Gods help me, I'm actually having a conversation with an animal. Right, time to go."

Myra grabbed the cloak that hung near her door and made her way to the hall outside. She stopped just outside the threshold and turned back to her room.

"Shimmer, stay here."

The direwolf whined and appeared to frown, if that was possible.

"Don't you give me that look." Myra paused and sighed. "I'm doing it again."

Finding herself running late, Myra practically bounded down the stairs and did not stop running until she had reached the postern gate, out of breath and feeling positively disheveled. Yes, she was bound to leave a wonderful impression with the royals.

"Bout time you showed up," Theon commented as she joined the gathering crowd. The Greyjoy was freshly shaven and for the first time in a while, looked to care about his appearance. "Was starting to think I'd have to drag you down myself. And who knows? You might have even enjoyed it."

Myra rolled her eyes. She had learned how to play the ward's game years ago, back when she truly believed her father would betroth them. The boy was crude, even for the North, but most things were meant in jest, a twisted sort of jest, but intended humor nonetheless. It was all a matter of stepping up to his level and beating him at it. That may have been why, out of all the Starks, she seemed to tolerate him the most. Even Robb, who treated him as a brother, had moments where he snapped.

Truly, there was a part of her that felt bad for Theon Greyjoy, a kraken forced to live with wolves, far from the sea and the isles he called home. He was a bit like Jon in that way, growing up alongside, but never truly one of them. Of course, she'd never say that out loud. Gods save the pride of young men.

She leaned in close to Theon, so only he could hear. "It's easy to think yourself a great flirt when you are the only one who practices it."

Theon snorted. "Clearly Robb doesn't tell you everything. Your twin's worse than I am."

"Whatever he's saying about me, it's a lie."

Robb and Jon approached them from the crowd. Myra had to bite on her tongue to keep from laughing, but could not help the wicked smile that formed on her face. Her brothers were not meant to be clean-shaven, that much she was certain of.

"I hadn't realized I had so many sisters," she managed to spit out before the laughter took over. Her eyes were tearing up and it was a little hard to breathe. She blamed the nerves.

Jon shook his head. "Alright, laugh it up, Myra, but you aren't exactly a wonderful sight yourself."

"Insulting a woman's looks? You're playing with fire, Snow," Theon said, eying her half-brother up.

"That's rich coming from you, Greyjoy."

Robb stepped in between the two. "Enough. Of all the days to fight, this is not one of them. The King will be here any moment."

Myra nodded, bringing herself back under control. "It was just a few words. The two of you take things far too seriously."

"Didn't you hear?" Theon asked. "We're from the North. We take everything seriously."

A horn blew overhead from one of the watch towers. The King was approaching.

The courtyard fell silent almost immediately. Everyone fell into their appropriate place, which Myra found rather odd since they had never actually practiced it before. It just came as naturally as breathing she supposed, knowing where you belonged in the realm. As it were, she did not stand by Robb as some thought she might. Rather, Myra stood at the end of the family line, keeping a close watch on Bran and…

"Where's Arya?"

Her mother voiced the concern before she could. It did not even take a quick glance around the courtyard for Myra to know her little sister was nowhere nearby. She was probably off running around Winterfell, again, wearing a strange, little disguise, again, and getting herself into all sorts of trouble…again.

It was a wonder their Septa still had hair.

"I could look for her," Myra suggested, though she knew all the knights in the Seven Kingdoms couldn't find her sister if she didn't want them to.

Just as she said the words, a spry little figure broke out from the rest, wearing an old helm that Mikken had been working on earlier. Smiles could be seen around the courtyard as her father grabbed Arya and took the helm out of her possession. Her sister proceeded to shove Bran out of the way to get her own place farther up the line.

The King arrived shortly after.

The first person she took notice of was the Prince, Joffery Baratheon, mostly because he took notice of her sister, and the two instantly exchanged looks that she was not entirely comfortable with. Robb noticed as well. Myra thought he might try to stab the boy right then and there. It made her want to laugh, seeing her brother acting protective over Sansa, and briefly she wondered if this was how he might be over any future suitor of hers. Maybe he had already been that way to Domeric.

Frankly, she could not see anything appealing about Joffrey, besides the fact that his father was King. He was a scrawny thing with nothing for lips and a mean, prideful look in his eyes, though that might have been the Lannister side showing, and he certainly looked more Lannister than Baratheon.

A large carriage slowly made its way under the portcullis, no doubt carrying the Queen and the other Baratheon children. Myra could see all the 'battle scars' from a long fought journey on the Kingsroad. No wonder it had taken them near a month to reach Winterfell.

Robert Baratheon entered next, his Kingsguard on either side of him, their white cloaks blowing in the breeze. If she had expected the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms to look like anything, what she saw was clearly not that. King Robert was a fat man who made her feel terrible for his horse, not the man she had heard of in stories her Septa had told her a dozen times before, the man who led the rebellion, who took off after his love and destroyed the wretched Targaryen who had taken her from him. She half thought the stories were lies by looking at him.

She did not get to look long, however, for as soon as he entered, they knelt, as all good lords do for their king. They stayed that way, all staring at the mud, until out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father stand again.

Myra watched as words were exchanged between the old friends. She had never seen her father smile the way he did with King Robert. There was a certain youthfulness to it, and she wondered if her father hadn't been as glum as he was now. But he had lost everything at the beginning of the rebellion. She supposed they were lucky he smiled at all.

King Robert made his way down the line, looking at all her siblings before finally coming to her. His whole body seemed to stiffen as his gaze fell on her, and she could see recognition reflected in his blue eyes. Mostly, she noticed the smell of alcohol on his breath.

"So the rumors are true," he spoke, though it sounded more like a whisper to her. "You look just like her."

It was not hard to guess at who the King referred to.

All her life, all Myra ever heard was how much she looked like her aunt, the great Lyanna Stark, as beautiful as she was feisty. She was not afraid to speak her mind or to use her sword for that matter. Her death was a great tragedy, and for her life, a rebellion had started, a great war that toppled a dynasty and left thousands dead across the fields of Westeros.

Myra hated her.

She was haunted by the ghost of a woman she had never met, expected to live up to her standards, standards that frankly Myra did not agree with. She could not go anywhere without a comparison, without being told how much she looked like a dead woman. It was like the gods had cursed her to live with an identity that was not her own. Perhaps that was why she was so different from her aunt, as if it was only to be as far away from her as possible, to be as different as possible so that maybe, one day, someone might recognize her for her rather than her aunt.

Of course, she should not have expected this from the King. After all, Lyanna was to have been his wife.

"So I have been told, Your Grace," Myra replied, dipping her head. She waited a moment before looking back up at the King. He still watched her, unmoving, recognition turned to disbelief in his eyes. The length of his gaze was starting to make her uncomfortable, and she wanted nothing more than to look at her father, silently urging him to help, but she did not dare look away from the King lest he take it as an insult.

"The gods truly do hate me," he whispered.

"Your Grace?"

Her words seemed to snap the King from his reverie. He stepped back, clearing his throat and looking to her father. "Ned, take me to your crypts."

And then he was gone.

Myra released a breath she had not realized she was holding, shoulders sagging in relief. Her father walked by, quickly patting her shoulder before following the King. It did more for her nerves than she thought it would.

Only then did she feel the gazes of the others.

The whole courtyard seemed to be staring at her, eyes filled with emotions she could not quite place, but she certainly did not like. Her whole family was looking at her, save for Robb, who was glaring at the spot the King had vacated. Prince Joffery was looking strangely pleased while to his right she could see the most famous, or perhaps infamous, of the Kingsguard, his uncle, Jaime Lannister, giving her a rather curious stare, like he had just found something he could not quite make sense of. The rest of Robert's court watched her as well, though they quickly went back to their own business, as though nothing unusual had actually happened.

But above it all, Myra felt her gaze.

The eyes of the Queen were hard to avoid. Cersei Lannister, for all the beauty she possessed, could be terrifying if she wished to be, and Myra felt the brunt of it at that very moment.

Oh, how she wished the walls of the courtyard were closer, if only so she could melt into them and disappear.

* * *

**Jaime**

"See something you like?"

Myra Stark had not spoken a word since she joined the company outside the Great Hall – frankly he was surprised the girl had turned up at all – but he had noticed her gaze on him several times, studious, curious. It was hard to miss, they were standing next to each other after all, he her escort to the feast, but he got the feeling she was oblivious to that. The utter look of surprise spread across her face confirmed his belief. She turned away abruptly, but Jaime did not need to see her face to know it was turning a deep shade of red. That was how they all reacted, all the ladies in all the courts so set in their ways. Their inability to think outside of propriety bored him.

He still was not quite sure what to make of her. What gossip he had heard, which was little to say the least, painted a picture of Lyanna Stark reborn. Physically, their words had been true. If her aunt had been standing in that very room with them, Jaime may not have been able to tell them apart. However, she lacked the fire that Lyanna possessed. In fact, she was very much like her father: calm, cool, and utterly uninteresting. It was a shame really.

"I was just…thinking of something, Ser Jaime."

"It must involve a good deal of me."

He watched her sigh, an inner struggle between her propriety and agitation no doubt. Cersei often had the same look.

"You are handsome, Ser Jaime, I admit, but that has nothing to do with my thoughts."

Jaime had to give it to the Northerners: he enjoyed their straightforwardness. No lies or dancing about the subjects with intricate words and compliments laced with poison, just pure, honest truth.

None of them would last a day in King's Landing.

"Certainly it has to have something to do with it. Why stare at me if it doesn't inspire anything?"

Her jaw muscle twitched. It made him smirk. Cersei often said he enjoyed goading people on far too much for his own good.

"Perhaps you inspire disgust, Jaime, like some sideshow attraction that pains people to look at, but they find they can't turn away from."

Tyrion approached them, a little too much spring in his step, as he finished off a goblet of wine. Jaime often found himself wondering who would win in a contest, his little brother or the King. His money was always on Tyrion and he had the feeling it would be a well-placed bet.

"Ah, is that why no one can stop staring at me? I always wondered."

"We ought to start charging people," Tyrion replied, turning to face his companion. "Lady Myra. I apologize for not meeting you properly earlier. I had some rather important business to attend to."

"It is quite alright, Lord Tyrion," Myra replied with a bow of her head, all smiles and courtesy. She even sounded like she meant it. "I'm certain we are all tired of introductions."

"Especially you, I should expect."

Jaime did not miss the brief glance Myra shot toward the doors of the Great Hall, where her mother stood with Robert. The King was already starting to sway from too much wine. He hoped Catelyn had a strong arm or the feast would be well over before it started. Not that Jaime would have minded. He was tired of ceremonies. It seemed that Robert could not wipe his ass without holding one, each more extravagant than the last.

Myra nodded once. "I do my part until I am bid to do no more."

Tyrion almost looked impressed. "Well spoken. Your septa must be proud."

Not long after, the company shuffled in line, preparing to march into the feast like some sort of spectacle on parade. He thought the years of countless banquets would have waned his annoyance, but instead he found it growing. Peace never had been very kind to him. It only made the longing grow.

"Is there something wrong, Ser Jaime?"

He found her gray eyes watching him and could have sworn they looked concerned. What in the Seven Hells had earned him that?

Before he had the chance to answer, Tyrion did him the honors from just behind them. "It's nothing he isn't used to. My brother is always bored. I would be too if my job consisted of standing and looking pretty all day."

Jaime looked over his shoulder. "I thought you said I was the ugly one."

Tyrion shrugged. "It's all a matter of perspective."

He did not miss the smirk on Myra's face as they entered the fray arm in arm.

The Great Hall was filled with boisterous laughter and the heinous conversations of those who already had too much to drink. It died down as Robert entered, chairs scraping across the stone floor as the people moved to stand for their King, but there was still a buzz of murmuring to be heard, none of it subtle in the least. Jaime could practically picture the frown on Cersei's face. He did not like it.

"Seems the party started early."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Myra look at him. "It's quite normal, I assure you. People might think differently of the North if they knew how we feast."

"You might be better off."

They took a few more steps into the hall, their pace remarkably snail like and tiresome for his long legs. Jaime bet Tyrion was enjoying it all immensely. To his left and right, dogs could be seen chewing on bones, men of the guard were dining with common folk, and several couples were already in the process of being nearly vulgar. Better off indeed.

"Tell me something, why is it you and I are in the back? Last I checked, you certainly weren't the youngest." Jaime leaned in close, whispering in her ear. "Is it that you wish to avoid a certain king?"

She immediately stiffened and her grip on his arm tightened. He'd struck a nerve. Jaime hadn't missed the interaction between her and Robert. If he was one to dole out pity, she would have it. He knew Robert well, and knew men just like Robert equally so. They weren't ones to let go of things that caught their attention, and the image of Lyanna Stark was bound to captivate him for an eternity.

"I always take the last place," Myra answered quickly, too much so. "I consider it a place of responsibility, to watch out for the youngest of my siblings when my parents cannot. And to show my humility. I may be the eldest, but Winterfell is not mine to hold."

"A good enough excuse, I suppose, though I doubt that explains how you practically ran to the back after Robert arrived."

Myra was silent for a while before quietly saying, "Wouldn't you?"

Jaime frowned, glancing down at his attire, which for once did not consist of his white cloak and embellished armor. "Can't say I've ever had the choice."

She nodded slowly. "I suppose none of us does."

No more words were exchanged between the two of them. Jaime escorted Myra to her seat, pretending to play the gallant knight that all the ladies yearned to see. Whatever had transpired between them no longer mattered to him. He spent the rest of the evening here and there, always a great distance from Cersei, and always longing to close it.


	4. The Fall

I'm getting faster at this (maybe?)! Thank you so much for all the reviews guys! You're the best! It keeps me motivated!

Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. Any similarities to other stories is completely coincidental.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The Fall

**Tyrion**

The quiet of the library was a blessed relief from the chaos of the King's feast. Not that he did not enjoy a good party, but every now and again he liked the company of intelligence and understanding more, and there was none to be found in the Great Hall of Winterfell.

He had not meant to spend much time in the library; he only wished to replace the books the Starks had provided in his room – a kind gesture on their part but woefully misinformed – but now he found himself tucked into a small chair in the corner, a candle on the table to his left and a dusty text on Artos the Implacable on his lap. The wineskin he had brought along had run dry long ago, but even that had not been enough to convince him to retire. Many would find that surprising, save for Jaime. Only his older brother knew how he truly functioned; only his older brother cared to know.

The book had begun to tell him of the Battle of Long Lake when the sound of an opening door caught his attention.

Tyrion glanced up to see a dark figure entering the room, and though the candlelight barely lit their features, he could tell it was a woman, and a rather relieved one at that. She did not seem to notice him. He found it a little odd, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. After all, people had been ignoring him all his life. What was one more person among the many?

"Some might call it strange, seeking the company of books rather than man, especially for someone such as yourself."

The woman jumped, clutching one hand to her chest. "Lord Tyrion…I didn't realize anyone would be up here, especially at this hour."

Gods knew that of all the possible visitors, Myra Stark was one of the better ones. Of course, anyone Tyrion had deemed a worse than death companion wouldn't think to step near a book, much less the library.

"Tell me, do you Northerners often keep a fire burning alone in a room full of paper?"

Even in the darkness, he could make out her sheepish features. "Only when Maester Luwin knows I'm coming."

He nodded as she took a seat across from him. "You are a frequenter then?"

"I must have read most of these twice over," she replied with a sigh. Her eyes wandered the shelves adoringly before pausing on him. "The Tales of Artos Stark, as written by his ailing Maester. I find the embellishment a little much, but once you break past the overused vocabulary, it's quite insightful."

Tyrion smiled. Oh yes, he and this Stark were going to get on just fine.

Myra was a pretty girl, perhaps not the most beautiful, but any lord with half a brain would count his blessings to have her on his arm. Her gray eyes were wide and curious, her face heart-shaped and friendly, and she had all the curves a woman could ask for, plus a little more for the sake of men. It was a wonder she had not been married off already, but Tyrion supposed Eddard had a reason for wanting his family close to him for longer than needed.

"As for the company," she continued, unaware of his scrutiny, "sometimes I enjoy being surrounded by things that cannot talk back."

He knew that feeling all too well.

"And when the books start to talk back?" he asked, shutting his own.

The girl chuckled. "Then I've had too much to drink."

_Clearly I've not had enough_.

It did feel unusual, still being at least partially sober, especially given the circumstances. Then again, the night was still young and there was plenty of wine to be found, no doubt because they had heard of his reputation to drink the lands dry. Or maybe that was Robert. Between the two of them, every inn within a thousand leagues was only serving water now.

A brief moment of silence passed between them before Myra spoke again, all traces of her previous humor now gone. She looked much more like her father that way, filled with all the grim tidings of the North. "Might I ask you something, Lord Tyrion?"

He sighed. "I suppose if it can't be avoided, but leave the titles out of it. My father is Lord of Casterly Rock. I am only his spawn, or so he is forced to believe."

Tyrion did not miss the strange look on her face, the slight sadness in her eyes at his choice of words.

"I did not mean to remind you of anything…unpleasant."

Well, she would be the first.

"My dear girl, I am reminded of it every time I wake in the morning. It takes an awful lot of drink in order to forget what I am, and I am hardly capable of getting that drunk anymore," he paused, eying his empty wineskin, "Now, please, ask what you will."

Still, she was quiet again, taking her time before hesitantly asking, "I was only wondering…the stares and the whispers, how do you ignore them? How do you make them disappear?"

Tyrion looked back to her, suddenly realizing what it was all about, why she sought sanctuary here in the library. Robert wasn't like to venture anywhere near intelligent things, nor any of his entourage, any of those who would whisper of who she resembled. He had never met Lyanna, but he knew of her. Not a soul alive in Westeros was unaware of the sad tale that brought the land to war. Myra must have seemed like some strange omen.

"I don't," he replied flatly. No need for lies here. For once, the truth was best. "Convince yourself that they do not exist and you will only wind up hurt. Believe me, I tried once."

He watched her nod, clearly defeated by his answer.

He sighed again. "Look, you are a pretty girl, and one day you'll have a lord husband who will relish it. Count your blessings that you have been given the face of another rather than…"

Tyrion gestured to himself as he slid down from his chair.

Her frown deepened. "I am sorry, Tyrion, I don't wish to compare my case to yours. I simply…"

She trailed off, biting her lip.

"I know, I know. Stop apologizing, you've done nothing wrong," he waved his hand in her direction, walking slowly to the door, book in hand. "Now, as much as I have enjoyed our conversation, I think a little fresh air may do me some good."

_As well as some more wine, if our dear King hasn't drank it all yet._

"Good night, Tyrion."

"Good night to you as well, Lady Myra," he replied with a sweeping bow, a courtesy he hardly thought he knew anymore.

Myra smiled at him before he left through the threshold.

"My mother is lady of this castle. I am only her spawn," he heard her call out.

Tyrion, despite himself, chuckled. "And I will do well to remember that!"

It was a long journey to the bottom of the stairwell, though not quite as tiresome as the climb had been. Still, Tyrion found himself scarcely able to breathe when he at last reach the bottom. More than once he glanced at the wineskin, cursing himself for having consumed it all too quickly. He had half a mind to retire to bed and be done with it, but still his tired body continued to waddle toward the Great Hall and the commotion coursing from it.

He turned a corner quickly, nearly running into an out held wineskin and the looming figure it belonged to.

"I told you not to leave me alone with these people."

"And I told you where you could find me," Tyrion replied as he grabbed the skin and took a swig. It was bitter stuff but satisfying nonetheless.

Jaime chuckled. "Ah, yes, the library. I think I preferred it when you were in the company of whores."

"Gods know why. You look at books the same way you do women: with complete and utter disinterest."

"At least the whores have a sense of humor."

"So do the books, if you'd read them once in a while."

Tyrion took another swig, heading back toward his room. Jaime walked beside him, at a pace that would most likely be uncomfortable for someone of his height had he not grown used to it over the years. For all the trouble Tyrion gave him, he was grateful for his brother. The gods, it seemed, had cursed him in every way they thought possible, but at least they had spared him one family member who cared.

Jaime gave him a look. "They're all the same. War turned into poetry and old men yearning for youth again. Tales of glory and honor. No one talks about how fast blood can drain from a man hit in the proper spot or the sound of metal making contact with the meat of your enemy. Not every book is about dragons or grumpkins but they're all fancy as far as I'm concerned."

There was a moment of silence.

"That was oddly serious of you. I should leave you alone more often."

"I'd rather you didn't. These Starks and their brooding are bound to drive me insane," Jaime said as they entered another stairwell. Tyrion did not bother hiding his disappointment upon seeing more steps. "There's a reason no one travels north."

"Maybe there's a reason they don't travel south," Tyrion added as they approached his room. "Come, Jaime, I plan on being properly inebriated before the night is through."

Jaime sighed. "Ah, from one drunk to another, my duty never ends."

* * *

**Myra**

She never used to dream. Nights often went uninterrupted until the first rays of sun broke over the horizon, but that morning she woke with a cold feeling grasping her body and the memory of a raven's wings. She could not recall any images, but whatever transpired in the dead of night left her with an empty feeling; she did not like it.

It was only when Myra finally forced her eyes open that she remembered she was still in the library, curled into one of the chairs. The position was not particularly comfortable, but she had fallen asleep there so many times that her body had grown quite used to the feeling. Maester Luwin used to keep extra blankets especially for her on one of the shelves.

Part of her longed to drift back to sleep, ignoring the party downstairs until they departed. It seemed a fairly pointless effort, however, considering she was to travel south with them when they returned to King's Landing.

Her father was now Hand of the King – something she still could not quite grasp the reality of – and she, Sansa, Arya, and Bran were to accompany him to his new position in the Red Keep. That left their poor mother with only Robb and Rickon. She could not imagine how lonely it would be, to go from six children to only two, and to go without sharing the bed with her husband. It was a wonder her mother still functioned, but she was the strongest person Myra knew.

Myra wondered how she would deal with the distance. It was Robb she worried for the most. And Jon. None of them had ever been far from the others. She knew Jon would not remain in Winterfell, especially if her mother had her way. To an extent, she could understand her mother's harshness toward their bastard brother, but at the end of the day, Jon had never done anything to her, and frankly had treated her with far more respect than what was called for. But she supposed her mother's opinion did not matter at this point. Jon had his eyes fixed upon the Wall and the dark duty their uncle had taken up all those years ago.

And now Robb would be acting Lord of Winterfell. At any other time, the thought of her twin, only seven and ten, commanding anything would have her bursting at the seams from laughter. Now it only reminded her what little time they had left in their childhood.

_Our whole family is being torn apart, and all for the want of one man._

A pounding at the door drew Myra's attention away from her thoughts. Sansa suddenly burst through the threshold, out of breath and clearly in a rush. A small part of Myra jumped in concern, but she had learned long ago that her younger sister often drew problems well out of proportion.

"Myra, where were you?!"

She blinked, glancing at her surroundings and gesturing to them. "Right here."

Sansa stamped her foot. "You were supposed to help me fix my hair this morning!"

"Oh…"

Recalling their conversation the previous night about attempting to plait her hair the way all the Southern girls did, Myra began to feel a little guilty. Sansa had been so excited. She wanted to look perfect for Joffrey, a thought that still caused a bit of bile to rise in her throat. Myra had to wonder what Sansa would think of the boy had he not been crown prince.

"I wanted Joffrey to see me before he went on the hunt," Sansa sighed, looking utterly deflated all of a sudden.

Myra just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Gods, youth was annoying.

"Sansa, the two of you are betrothed. You've plenty of time to show him whatever hairstyle that pleases you."

"You don't understand!"

She sighed. "No, I suppose I don't. Look, why don't we work on it now, that way when he returns, he can see how much more beautiful you've become in his absence."

That seemed to cheer Sansa up. She smiled timidly, though it quickly disappeared. "We aren't going to do it here, are we?"

Myra raised an eyebrow. "I hadn't thought to, but what is wrong with the library?"

"It smells like dust and dead things."

Well, she supposed her sister wasn't wrong, though she wasn't exactly right either.

Not an hour later, Myra found herself in Sansa's room with clumps of hair in each hand and a slew of curse words caught in her throat. She had always thought herself quite gifted in the realm of style – even if she often did not use it. Then again the North had never really required much out of her. Everything from the South was so finely intricate. Most of the detail was likely lost on others, but it was still demanded, something that would no doubt drive her insane at some point or another.

Shimmer and Lady were on the ground before them, both watching with heads curiously tilted. Out of all the direwolves, theirs were the best behaved. Myra's was by far the largest, at least at this point, and often took command of the others. It was entertaining if not slightly unnerving at the same time. They were so like each other, all the Starks and their pets.

"Are you finished?"

"What do you think, Sansa?"

She huffed. "Well, are you close?"

"The instant I am anywhere near being done with this monstrosity of a hair style, I will tell you."

Sansa fell still again, though Myra knew it would not be for long. She gave her younger sister credit, she did far better at staying in one place than Arya ever would, but she knew the girl had limits and they were very close to breaking them.

"Do you think he'll love me?"

Myra had not expected such a question from her sister, so sudden and serious. She paused a moment, before continuing to plait her hair.

"I think he would be a fool not to. You're beautiful and kind – when you choose to be – and far better than any of those Southern girls they brought with them."

"But what if it's not enough? What if he hates me? I don't want to live with a husband who hates me."

"He won't hate you, Sansa."

"How do you know?" Sansa turned to her, slow enough to allow Myra to let her hair go. Her poor sister looked on the verge of tears. What had brought it all on? "It was different with you and Domeric. He wasn't pretty and he wasn't a prince, but I could tell that he loved you."

Ignoring the jab at Domeric, she smiled. "We'd known each other for a long time. You have been with Prince Joffrey for hardly a day. Give it time and you'll be alright."

Sansa sat back again, though not entirely relaxed. Myra could spot the tenseness in her shoulders. "I hope so. I'd hate to end up like the Queen."

Her smile disappeared. Yes, the Queen. What a life she must have led. A replacement wife for a dead one, left to watch as her husband makes a mockery of their marriage and their rule, constantly under the scrutiny of others all the while. Myra knew a good mask when she saw one, and the Queen's was an exquisite piece, but the cracks were there, and time was making them more obvious.

Despite first impressions, she pitied the woman. And she pitied the King for being blind to it all.

Myra had just returned to her struggles with Sansa's locks when Lady and Shimmer began to howl. Had they been any of the other pups, she might not have minded, or rather she would have expected it. A quick harsh tone would be all they needed to quiet up. But when it came to her pup and Sansa's, the two had hardly uttered a yip, much less a howl. They sounded in pain and immediately ran for the door, clawing at it.

"Lady, what is wrong with you?" Sansa asked, turning to the door. "Lady come here!"

The pup did no such thing. She only howled louder.

Myra watched them, her stomach sinking all the while. She remembered her dream and the cold feeling.

_Dark wings, dark words._

Something was wrong.

"Sansa, take hold of Lady. I want you to stay here, alright?"

She did not like the frightened look her sister gave her. "Myra, what is happening?"

"I don't know. It's likely nothing."

"You wouldn't tell me to stay here if it was nothing."

Myra sighed. "Please, Sansa, do it for me."

Her sister nodded, grabbing Lady away from the door. Myra opened it and followed as Shimmer rushed into the corridor and down the stairs, as fast as her little legs could carry her, which as it turned out was nearly enough to outrun Myra. She hitched up her skirts as high as she dared, trailing after the little pup at a reckless speed. Left and right, servants paused to look at her, but if they knew her well enough, which most did, they would be used to it. All her life she had run up and down the halls of Winterfell, chasing after siblings and getting aid when one of them hurt themselves again. Usually for Robb. He always was the clumsy one.

Gods, what if it was the hunting party?

She pushed back the dark thoughts as far as she dared, picking up her pace as Shimmer led her outside, to a well secluded and less looked after part of the castle. From time to time, Myra would visit the area, often conjuring up ideas of how to improve it. Calling it the Broken Tower and leaving it be, burned and rotting, did not seem to do Winterfell or her family much justice. If anything, it made them look like a lazy lot, which they were quite the opposite of.

A small crowd had gathered at the base of the tower. There were wails and whispers and an overall commotion that did not bode well. Shimmer stopped just short of them, making her way to another direwolf pup and howling beside it.

The pup belonged to Bran.

And in the center of the crowd, pale and motionless, was the small form of her little brother, looking more dead than alive.

It was all she remembered before the ground gave out beneath her feet.

* * *

**Jon**

Something was hurting, a steady, stabbing motion deep within his chest. The more he thought about it, the more it hurt, but there was nothing in all of Westeros that could take his attention away, save for Bran's voice asking another one of his silly questions or trying out a new name on his direwolf.

But Bran would not be speaking for a long time now.

Perhaps never.

He'd rather think of the pain than that.

He'd rather think of it over the fact that all his family was gathered around Bran now, comforting one another while he was in the godswood, praying to gods who never spoke, grieving alone because even now Lady Stark could not bear the sight of him. Even now, while his brother was lying there helpless, possibly dying, she would send him away, not let him look at his sweet face one last time before fate took him away. It was a cruelty far worse than anything she had given him, and still his father would have him obey.

And he would, because he was a hopeless bastard who knew more of obedience than love.

He wanted to punch the ground then, and so he did. Again and again his fist made contact with the dirt. More pain shot up his arm, but it was nothing next to the pain in his chest. His skin was breaking. He didn't care. His fist left trails of blood in the dirt. He still did not care. It felt good to vent his frustrations, at Catelyn, at the King, at everyone who had ever made him feel small only for breathing.

Even when he thought something cracked, he kept going. Bran was dying. He could take the pain.

"Jon, stop!"

His fist froze midair.

Jon turned in the direction of the voice. There Myra stood, not three feet away, her eyes watching him with a wild, desperate look and her lips trembling. She looked on the verge of tears. Her hair was a tangled mess and her dress, the very one she had worn for the feast, was covered in mud. He had heard she fainted at the sight of Bran and that one of the guards had to carry her back inside.

He stood slowly, hair just touching the low lying leaves of the weirwood. The fingers on his right hand flexed slowly, but the pain was gone, the skin numb.

"Suppose you'll want to look at this," he mumbled, daring to meet her eyes again.

"I might," she whispered.

They stood silent for a while, neither daring to speak or move, yet so much passed between them. Jon suddenly understood it, the silent talks that she and Robb always had, knowing what the other wanted and needed without saying a word. He knew then what Myra needed.

The instant he strode forward and wrapped his arms around her, Myra collapsed, her silence broken down into sobs. She buried her face into his shoulder and dug her fingers deep into his clothes.

"I couldn't bear it, Jon," she managed between shaky breaths. "Mother was wailing…so was Rickon. Sansa and Arya and Robb. Even father. Oh Jon, I couldn't look at him. He wasn't the same. I told myself I had to be strong. I had to be strong for them, but I couldn't. The screams and the whispers and the words like death. I can't be strong, Jon, not anymore."

"You know you never have to be around me." He tightened his grip, taking care to keep the blood off her clothes. "I'll be strong for the both of us."

"That isn't fair to you."

He paused. "Nothing ever is."

Myra's shaking stopped suddenly. She looked up at him, gray eyes so like his own, though reddened from her tears. He could see the concern welling in them, the urge to care calling her back from despair. Slowly, she released herself from his grip and grabbed his hand, gently turning and touching it. She was a good healer, even Maester Luwin had said so. Anything that involved her hands, she could master, though she never said anything of it. That was Myra Stark, strong and quiet, humble and kind.

"Do you remember that Septon from the Riverlands? The fat man with an even fatter ego?"

Jon nodded, smiling softly. "How could I forget? You had him convinced that I was your twin and so for one whole day, I was Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell. You even had our brother prepare my horse like some sort of servant."

"I told Robb if he didn't play along, mother would find out about his expedition to the brothel." Myra let his hand go, leaving her fingers red and sticky. She stared at them for a long time before meeting his gaze again. "Don't go to the Wall, Jon. Not now…not with everything like this."

He should have known the conversation would take this turn. It had been a fact looming in the air for the past few weeks, but Myra had never mentioned it, likely out of respect. Perhaps now she thought she could change his mind. Or she was desperate enough to ask him to do something he did not want. That wasn't like her. Myra would drag herself through all seven hells and back again to keep others from having to do something for her that caused them issue.

"And what would you have me do? She won't even let me see him, Myra, my own brother."

She shrugged. "I could speak with her, Jon."

"You've spoken with her a thousand times before, so has father. It never changes anything," he paused. "If I don't go to the Wall now, I never will."

"Then never go."

His sister made it sound so easy. How he wished it was.

"It's a bit selfish, don't you think, asking me to stay while you're set to leave for King's Landing?"

Myra bit her lip, a telltale sign that the foundation of her argument was crumbling. "You could come with us."

"You and I both know bastards don't fare well at court."

She stood a little straighter. "Then I'll stay. I won't have you leave, Jon. Our family is falling apart, and if you go…I fear I'll never see you again."

He sighed. "And what am I to do when you're married? When Robb is? Am I to trail my siblings around for the rest of my life, the unwanted bastard of Winterfell with nothing better to do?"

Myra shook her head. "Why must you always be so cruel to yourself, Jon?"

"Because life is not kind."

A brief moment of silence passed between them. Jon knew the discussion was at an end. Myra was not one to push something, even for things as important as this. She did not like to argue, and she did not like to leave things on a sour note.

"You should return," he said eventually. "Father'll be looking for you."

"Not until you've had your hand taken care of."

Jon looked at it again. Flexing the fingers was harder now, though no more painful. "It's fine. A little rest is all it needs."

"You're a dreadful liar, Jon."

He had to smile at that. She always knew.

They walked through the godswood toward the entrance, each step slower than the last. He did not wish to leave the relative peace of the area and got the feeling his sister felt the same. Part of him wished to suggest they stay, spend a few more hours, let the world outside pass them by. Nothing could harm them here. But he knew better than that. Eventually they all had to face the world.

And so they stepped back into Winterfell, his heart no lighter than before, not ready but at least willing to do what needed to be done.

It was the last time he and Myra were alone together before Winter engulfed the countryside.

* * *

So, I kinda misplaced my notebook filled with my plot scribbles. It might take me a bit for chapter four, but I will get it to you! Until next time!


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